


He Opens His Throat to Sing

by alexavindr (orphan_account)



Series: Caged Bird [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Epistolary, Gen, Good Parenting From Jakob Lehnsherr, Introspection, Post Beach Divorce, Post X-Men: First Class, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Writer Has Developed Some Writing Skills Since Last Part of the Series, ha what a joke no she hasn't, needs to be an actual tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 06:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/alexavindr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik writes a letter to no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Opens His Throat to Sing

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a really long time since I've written something in this series, wow! Well, here's a brief interlude from the norm. I do have something else in the works for this series as well, so that should come along soon-ish, perhaps after finals and the like.
> 
> This letter has a paragraph with some knowledge from a previous installment in this series, so if you want to understand what Erik's talking about when I start talking about good ole' Cap in an X-Men fanfic, then stop reading at: (I promised myself I would not write about this, but I suppose I must. It's not like anyone will read this other than the trash collector who will undoubtedly throw this into the bin after he takes it away.) and resume at: I try not to think of the past any more than I try not to think of the future: both equally desolate and uninviting.
> 
> Also, the relationships aren't actually present but I'm tagging them because ~~I want people to read this~~ they were/are going to happen, anyway.

I suppose writing a letter is a better use of my time than, say, meditation, however potent it is in making me forget where I am. If that is the point of writing this letter, then, I am merely creating a larger problem than sitting up against the - concrete - wall and inhaling the - plastic - air and (though I know it not wise) thinking of the place outside this prison, a place that would not accept me for the person - mutant - I am. Daydreaming gets one nowhere. It is a less intricate form of naivety that I refuse to partake in, lest I become accustomed to its practices and ideals.

But no, I write this letter to no one, not even myself, truthfully. I write this letter just so my fingers do not stiffen from disuse, so the muscles in my hands do not wither away into atrophy. I have long forgotten the notes to the sonatas I used to play on the piano, even further where the keys are themselves. Whereas a year ago I could still try to hear the notes of Piano Concerto No. 5 as I pressed into the cold hard ground of my cell pretending the concrete beneath my fingertips was a set of white and black ivory keys, I cannot even remember the sound of my own voice, for I use it no longer.

There is no need to, not when I am miles beneath the surface, in a room where my meals are delivered through a plastic chute in a plastic tray with plastic cutlery - funnily enough, the food itself tastes of plastic too, as if to mock and parody actual flavor - and I have not seen a human, or mutant, for that matter, in many moons. So why use my voice when it gets me nowhere? Why use my voice when no one listens? I take more pride in myself than to try and argue on my own behalf, on behalf of the doomed. My alibi, my truth, is reminiscent of something a desperate man would spin in hope of another listening out of ingrained ideology. Even then, a sane man would believe it not to be true. Often times I am left thinking the same.

I remember when I was a child my father would refuse to talk or listen to me for my form of punishment, the length of which he did this depending on the severity of the wrongdoing. My father was a charming man, and he was kind, but he did believe in discipline. Not physical, he would never go as far as that, but I think it would have less impact on how I see the world as I do now.

My father, for however long it was, would punish me by not talking to me unless absolutely necessary, and blatantly ignoring me whenever I attempted to right the situation.

Whenever this would end, this torturous punishment for a young child such as I, being shrugged off by their parent, he would say the same thing every time: "Apathy is more painful than a beating, Erik. If you are helped after a beating, you feel better. If you are ignored after a beating, it is even worse than the blow itself."

Back then, when I was a boy who was more concerned about having more fun than learning how to be a functional human being, I did not understand what he meant. But now that I have not only grown apathetic of others, I have _experienced_ apathy turned on me in a way much worse than my father not listening to me whine about how I did nothing wrong by staying up late reading a book when I should have been sleeping. I know what it's like to have a person avert their gaze from a gaunt, starving teenager just because of a yellow star sewn into their jacket. I know what it's like to see another man stare straight ahead as an innocent boy is cut open on an operating table by a madman.

...

(I promised myself I would not write about this, but I suppose I must. It's not like anyone will read this other than the trash collector who will undoubtedly throw this into the bin after he takes it away.)

The first time after Schmidt that I felt another human being was listening was my brief encounter with the infamous Captain America and his Howling Commandos. (Americans and their arbitrary names for simple things.) After two years of my voice only being used for praying, screaming, and protesting, it was being heard. It was upon ears that knew no German, but I somehow still felt that it was not lost, even if the exact language held no true meaning. I long for our brethren to experience that sort of elation after so long of being oppressed by others.

~~I have felt this way as well with Ch~~

 I try not to think of the past any more than I try not to think of the future: both equally desolate and uninviting. I can only lose more as time goes on, as time unfailingly works. There are things time cannot steal from me, however, and while most people find them weaknesses, I find them as strengths. Time cannot erase ink embedded in skin. I wear the tattoo as a tribute that I don't want to forget, as so many do and try. (And fail.) Time cannot heal all scars. I hide them not, let the silvery slashes in my person prove I am worthy of the body I currently reside in and use.

Time is a common enemy, but I see it as an equal. I'd waited years to escape my creator, and many more to kill him. I would wait even longer if that was what it took to see the light leave his beady eyes, to watch his wretchedness leave behind inky black pits of death. I would do it all again, if it came to it. And as I waited and planned to see an end of that, I do the same with my cause. I may be wrongfully placed in a hole that reeks of humans and plastic, but it's all going to come to an end, an end that I will have played my part in, an end that I desperately hope to see.

Until then, I'll just think of sheets of music and flavorful wine, and in my spare time, perhaps I'll write another letter, a letter no one else will ever read.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me how I portrayed Erik's inner voice! I'm trying to understand him better - I find him easier than Charles, who is the most complex and bizarre character in the X-Men to write, in my opinion - so your feedback would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
